


The House on the Hill

by i_gaze_at_scully



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Little horror bite written for a @just-fic-already workshop on tumblr!
Kudos: 1





	The House on the Hill

They whisper. They’re 50 yards out but still they whisper. 

“You don’t have to be here.” Hushed, against her ear while the warmth of his body rests inches away. “We don’t have to do this.” 

She clicks her flashlight on deliberately, shoves it into his hand. 

“Lead the way,” she says. Whispers. The fog around them swallows her words, whisks them away into the night. Mulder takes the flashlight and steps forward, towards the house. Scully follows. 

It is a house. A house on a hill. Scully focuses on the foliage on the trees and not the shocking density of the forest, listens to the wind instead of the absence of wildlife. Ignores the unnaturalness emanating from all around. Charges forward, holster unclipped, hair on edge. 

Her whisper carries, loud like an echo, clear like a shout. 

“Which door?” 

He whips around with his finger to his lips, a screech bellowing from just beyond their cast light, lapping at their shadows. Mulder throws his arm around her, brings them down low as something, must be a bat, maybe an owl, swoops low. Very low. 

With his hand over hers, he locks eyes and motions desperately. Please, he begs. Shh. 

She tries to silence the sound of her swallowing as she nods. 

They creep forward towards the house on the hill, through the brush and the mud. It is too wet for the crunching of fallen leaves, too slick for the breaking of branches. Instead, they focus only on their breathing, on not holding it long enough to create sound upon the exhale. They focus on the light ahead of them, whatever it illuminates. They hold onto each other as they walk. 

Ten yards out and suddenly every hair on her arms stands taut. She feels it. When Mulder’s desperate eyes find hers, she knows she’s not alone in this deduction. 

Forgoing their cover, they run. 

Branches whine, bushes shriek. Scully’s hair engulfs her face as the wind collects in tirade, as the leaves fall as hail onto their coats. Mulder’s hand is a vice on hers and her legs strain to keep up as he plows ahead. The natural sounds of the world stop, and in a moment, there is silence. 

The eye of the hurricane. 

It hits her first, knocks her over, a wall of sound so devastating she feels blood run down her chin. She screams, rips her hands from Mulder’s to cover her ears. 

“Scully!” She hears, but from where? Where is he? He was right there! They were so close, he was right there, where–– 

… 

She wakes up on tile. It is cold. It is silent. She is utterly, inconceivably alone.


End file.
